


Retrospective of an Artist

by orphan_account



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Art, Confessions, Future Fic, Illustrations, Inspired by Art, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Shorts, now with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kieren's story told in the pieces of art he creates. </p><p>Hiatus for now, but there will be pictures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The scars on your back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you'd rather stay together, in love, than admit the things that could tear you apart. Truth telling with Simon and Kieren.

**_The scars on your back_. From the exhibition, 'His arms.' Wood cut print on linen, 1 of 3.**

The first time Simon cried, or broke in a way only the undead fell apart, Kieren switched tactics. Instead of aggressive questions, he grabbed Simon's arm and pulled him outside, so that they could focus on the grass, the graves, the trees, the sky, anything but each other.

The first answer crushed his soul as much as anything he could have imagined; he felt as if the air were pummelled out of him; he felt as if his love were held up against a backdrop of genocide and terrorism.

But then after that, after he didn't leave, after he remained standing holding Simon's arm among the trees - even if he couldn't look at him - after that, he started to understand something about this man who had fallen in love with him.

This man who, only now, shakily described stories he couldn't, or wouldn't, remember. Like

his mother.

His mother who was _like_ Kieren's mother, or his dad, Amy or Jem. Kieren feel sick like a brick through the head. This Mother, who was Simon's only photograph, a sole, painful, burning, icon of love and death.

So love and death and family got twisted into a religious second coming.

So his current boyfriend was a cult-propagator, almost murderer, who could have killed him, would have killed him, didn't, but.

If Kieren had been someone else, (Yes we have all done things we shouldn't.) If Kieren had confronted Simon in the bedroom, not rabid, but mad, intense, (and Amy still Dead.) If Simon hadn't loved Kieren just enough, (That knife ready to spill, to split.) Another disciple. Another Maxine Martin. Another Gary-treatment centre-parents going berserk.

If he hadn't been there, (Kieren: shot, stabbed, locked up, carted away, depressed again, sick of it, dead, dead, dead.) If he hadn't...  

And then there were the scars.

Kieren remembered the first time, curled around on Simon's bed in the bungalow, feeling the marks through a shirt like a skin that Simon didn't want to take off. He remembered kissing, and looking dead in Simon's eyes, as his fingers meet the ridges in Simon's back. Kieren had always noticed a hunch, a sort of curled way of walking, a tiredness and a shake of alarm in preparation for supposed disgust.

And now.

He didn't know where the time had gone. They were in Simon's room. Amy's house. Kieren's stuff. Simon saying 'Stay. Please. Stay.'  Kieren saying 'Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.' Kieren listening fiercely. Kieren with wide large eyes and Simon shaking before him. Shaking and then standing, unbuttoning his shirt. This time, time vanishing. Kieren:

'I can't do this.'

And then he went home.

He shut the door.

He ignored his parents ('There isn't anything wrong?')

He knew something about 'that man’ who looked at him like raw magic. Simon hulking through every one of his drawing pads, ideas and waking dreams. He sees Simon see himself a monster, invisible blood, or his own grey bodily fluids forever dripping from his mouth. But, raw magic isn't something you were supposed to kill for a prophecy. Who even believes that prophecies are supposed to come true, these days.

**So he draws him.**

So he draws him in the wood, in the cut marks he takes out of it.

So he draws him half naked, far more naked-honest than he'd ever choose to be.

So he draws him standing up in front of Kieren now; everywhere Kieren turns his eyes, as if his eyes had love like a pair of glasses.

Simon: beauty hunched and morally reprehensible.

Simon: thinking Kieren is special, special, honest and pure.

Simon: believing he is a monster; he is a monster. Sometimes we all are.

And then Kieren knows deeply. Even as he recoils and thinks, for a second, about being surrounded by murderers and would be murderers. _He himself is something of a murderer_. Even as the weight of these new answers push the limits of his skin and the depressive hope formerly bouncing in his undead heart.

He needs Simon to stay, just as much as brushing shoulders, meeting eyes, that unforgivable day at Amy's funeral.

He needs Simon to stay, as he kisses him bursting through the door of the bungalow so long (not long) ago.

He needs Simon to stay, when he asked him to be normal just for one god-damn second, for them both to be normal, for Kieren to be normal for-

As Kieren angrily strolled up to this white faced, smart-aleck stranger standing on his grave (that first time.)

So Kieren's entire body shakes again,

it's becoming regular to have a stress-filled, forever near-death, afterlife,

his arm letting control go of the woodcutters on the board.

Figure turning into abstract line: aggressive, muddled, heartfelt.

As he runs his fingers through his red-blonde hair the image mirrors his disorientation.

He is overwhelmed and incensed.

But 

He doesn't want, He can't let, He won't let,

Simon go.


	2. As if she could/blushed rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieren misses Amy more than anything. About losing people.

**_As if she could/blushed rising_ ** **. Series of six, from 'Amy drawn twice'. Presumed model: Amy Dwyer. Gouache and oil crayons on board.**

He had painted her every day for a week. She smiled on the kitchen table, in the smudges on his hands, in the way her and Rick were like tree rings, this nagging part of soul that made up his body. The paintings were slower now but the emotion without dullness or dilution.

He just could not let her go.

He missed her so much. He had ignored her so much. He felt her just around the corner, _so much._ God he was mad at Simon.    

Not that it was Simon's fault, not that _that_ was Simon's fault.

Simon, who was on his bed.

Fully clothed, mostly shielded, hunched body stammering: 'Don't throw me away.' He faked extra dialogue for Simon like, 'Kieren, I deserve hell-fire, brimstone and Jem throwing rocks at my knees. Please. Forgive me, but lets not address it, now or ever.’

Exhausted and punched through the heart, Kieren could confront this - or the end of the world - later. He wanted to admit it as much as he wanted to swallow gravel, blood and grit, but he needed Simon here; he needed Simon for the rest of this world not to feel so irrelevant, brutal and cruel.

He still chose not to kiss him.

Achingly frustrated, Kieren glanced back at Amy: her colours red bleeding into orange, into pink and electric blue. He tried again to make her smile; he had managed before, her face still fresh in his head and the rose-bordered photographs. But here she escaped him, looking off and away into the distance.

Figures, (are they ghosts? other undead like him? some mythical angels?) with flesh tones covered in nondescript greys, yellow and darkness, edged behind her shoulders in the background of the mirror like a body bag.

Focusing and refocusing his eyes with a cough, and nails dug into fingertips, he started spilling red flowers across the board. Like her coffin. If only the growth could reverse time, **or wake her up.**

 _Again._ The paintings got at Jem sometimes; she was a electrical break of nerves and tears; her parents didn’t know yet; Kieren would get her help; he wouldn’t tell them.

 _Flowers to break the mirror into shards_. The process was slow and jarring; he had asked Phillip around; they had never been close; Phillip left the teacup stained with shaking fingers; there was relief in the house when he left: love cuts a certain kind of grief.

 _To surround her body like an orb_. When Rick had died, Kieren had imploded; but Amy was different; he was struggling to feel much of anything; the painting was her(almost) reflected in the mirror; her face, but hazy, frustrated, almost lost looking. 

 _The gestures grew stronger_. Of course he still felt Simon; he felt that: some rage, disgust, some disbelief; he hadn't ever believed, not really, as he described Maxine Martin’s actions in his living room, the day that Amy died; Simon could disappear, but he would never do that.

 _Harder_. But he could do _that._ He could have done _that_. What if he had done _that._

_Harder. Layer on top of layer, on top of layer, on top of layer, on top of-_

'Kier stop!'

Simon yelled, grabbed, hugged and held his shaking fists and unshed tears back.

 


	3. Out of sorts: Out of my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moods, love and snark getting in the way of true art. Kieren keeps thinking about Simon, and what to do about Simon.  
> Art has moods; I have moods: So sometimes we will all swing around wildly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the lengths I take Kieren's characterisation! I just Kieren think of him as a person, and an artist, who understands the world through whatever emotion he's feeling.

**_Out of sorts: Out of my head_ ** **. Gifted from Wilson Collection. Presumed model: Simon Monroe. Oil on board.  
**

He was now painting, in unadulterated oils, the fucking Mona Lisa.

Except her sly, knowing smile and perfect features had been replaced in form and subject by Simon and that stupid crooked smile. Swirling the paintbrush into sticky clumps, he knew that this was a mistake; _everything_ was a mistake; his entire mood, birth and plan of action a colossal error; and the biggest mistake was that after months he still had that same slimy, want-to-be criminal, _in his bed._

Or, more accurately, he frequently strayed into Simon's bed, at Amy's house, away from his parents.

Parents who, ignoring the recent storm of flat monochrome canvases depicting Orwell-like surveillance and Japanese Pop Art, were making an almost   fascist effort to be _all knowing_ \+ _all supporting_ \+ _all there,_ regardless of the shape of his body or supposed 'lifestyle choices.'

He had left out some...specifics. Like the fact that his lover had debated killing him on the word of an Undead Youtube prophet. 

Kieren - secretive for sneaky reasons even  _he_ was not privy to, especially when Simon called for his own submission to lie on a cross and have rotten fruit thrown at him, - decided that while _, even if not a boyfriend or lover_ , Simon was acting as a hugbear incarnate for Kieren's moody body: everybody else could just back the hell off. 

Strictly, they were not speaking.

But.

This was leading to symptoms of cussing and (artistic) tension.

Failing absolute harmony, Kieren had utilised a disposition towards solving his own problems.

Through force.

Or not talking. Or simply turning up at Simon's house unannounced. Or dragging Simon by his turtle-neck through his parents, and Jem's, attempts at conversation. All these options ended with Simon pulled into cuddles on the bed, well _mostly._

Kieren still maintained a fierce silence and **adamantly** refused Simon's questions. He guessed it was somewhere between courageous, foolhardy and mostly, unbelievably, stupid. Probably the latter.

Still, It was better than nothing: _not significantly better,_ but better than being trapped in a deep dark hole, or hopelessly mingling at an art opening. _  
_

Beginning last Sunday however, which he remembered for a cold that he didn't feel except for stabbing motions in his head, Simon had begun to force communication. It was, _for sure_ , a calculation of sunshine and schemes the way, instead of talking, he put on a cover of The Cures: 'Close to Me,' _I've waited hours for this, I've made myself so sick, I wish I'd stayed....asleep today,_

_I never thought this day would end, I never thought tonight could ever be,_

_This close to me..."_ as Kieren entered the bedroom.

Sometimes, he thought of Simon's feelings, morals and good ol' common sense, as more concrete-rock than person; but even if he'd been dipped in cement and made to shake hands with school-children, _there was no way_ he could have missed the jolt as Kieren bit his lip and sucked on it. How the song threw Kieren into a fit of tension, how he thought of running his hands on to skin and up thighs, kissing that forever-beautiful torso.

But _more importantly,_

Kieren was at a loss to conceptualise when, or how, Simon had discovered the existence of covers.

He knew he should be rageful. And if not that: sexy.

And if not that: practical or artistic.

But _how_ did Simon even understand the concept of a cover in regards original or 'authentic' music. It was frankly disturbing. As much as Simon's new adored beast...the sex-obsessed lover that was **the internet.**

Of course, they were both symptoms of the same illness; Simon had a new job.

Grudgingly and without ever admitting it, Kieren did like Simon _an awful lot_ in this particular job. A part-time support worker, Simon worked with students at the local technical college; he provided study assistance to young people and mature students with learning and behavioural difficulties. He talked them through essays, mental illness and drug addiction; they taught him to grin like a punk, buy **all the records** online with a credit card and use Photoshop.

Simon had gushed at Kieren - who had been fuming, - while gesturing with sickly innocence/overwhelming joy, that he'd spent all afternoon helping one of his students make themselves into a superhero, _and a rock_ , on Photoshop.

It was the best thing ever, he said.

Kieren, twitching with love, or perhaps going rabid, said it was funny what constituted paid employment.

Simon, followed him into twitchy silence. 

Later when Kieren thought about the new band, he imagined single Simon singing as a person turned rock that he could accidentally step on; Simon looked like he was dreaming a self promotional film called: ' _How we made it through, and the man who was there for us_ ;' Kieren looked like he was wearing a nine-scowled mask and debating his (reformed) aversion to personflesh, living or dead; Simon asked him if he liked the music; Kieren said he hated it; Simon...

also scowled.

While Simon lay reading poetry on the bed with his socks poking off the mattress, stomach on the duvet, Kieren pretended to paint over in the other corner, on the desk, like a hermit. 

He was having difficulty _killing off_ all his tiny baby feelings.

If Simon was thinking about how much he minded Kieren amassing a steady collection of his paintings and prints in the bedroom, lounge and edging out into the kitchen, then he wisely withheld his words.

As for Kieren, he was failed to keep his eyes focused; he thought it was no wonder that the painting had grown decidedly masculine, pale and with lips that asked for fucking-great-kissing. **Oh damn God.**

Everything about this entire situation, his entire life, the world and everything in it, was a mistake.

He continued to pour red and black from their tiny, priceless tubes until all he got sleeves covered in paint and Simon noticing his fervent glances.

At least Kieren had some affection for new band: their lyrics were excellent, but their name was a hilarious mistake, or, more accurately, a ridiculous question:

' _Why_ are you listening to this pretentious indie rubbish?

 _Why_ haven't you taken the hint, departed with a scowl and left me alone weeks ago?

 _Why_ did you - intelligent, moody and brilliant - fall wholeheartedly into a cult of pure ridiculousness and ruin the first good relationship I've had, that I didn't have to lie about.

 _Why_ are we doing this...

You took a bullet meant for me, and you could have died.

You could have killed me, and you didn't, but,

can I really live with the fact you might have killed someone else for this?

I could have died, but was it sure that someone else would have? You had this messiah dream for a better future that you would not share, except through jail or in the ground dead. You saved me; what does that mean? Are we together? Should we be together? Do you...

want me?

 _How can I forgive you now, or trust you: completely_. **Did. Amy. die.**

because of the beliefs you helped propagate? Did you know - the other people, all those who died - would you have done it if it wasn't me?

 _Why_ are you here Simon?

_Why_

**do I want you here.** **still.**

What does this even mean.'


End file.
